Epileptics and other Mental Deficients
I felt a cold chill run up my spine and a shutter in my bones as the metal door closed behind me. I could taste the metal of the rust on its hinges.
Something in my body knew I would never walk out those doors again.
My feet felt like anchors, refusing to move from their spot even though I could feel the panic rising in my chest.
Down the hall, two men approached me, their hands outstretched, ready to stop me even if I had tried to run away.
It seemed like an eternity before they finally reached me, their eyes glaring with suspicion and mistrust.
The air was heavy with the smell of rust and decay. It coated my lungs and felt as though I were trying to breathe through a pillow.
I could taste the damp musty smell of mold and the earthy ad earth that filled my nostrils.
The air around us seemed to grow colder and more intense with each passing second until finally one of them spoke “Welcome to Misselthwaite.”
Without a word, the men began dragging me down the darkened hallway toward some unknown destination.
We went deeper and deeper into this prison-like place — and I feared our destination without having seen it.
